Thursday, March 25
With all this writing about writers writing about writing, it seems only appropriate that I finally watched Sylvia last night. Despite my aversion to Gwyneth Paltrow, I wanted to give the movie a chance, since Sylvia Plath was so appealing to me as a young girl. I've revisited her work only briefly now that I'm a bit older, and while I can still appreciate it, I'm happy to say that I no longer find her depressed, suicidal nature as fascinating as I once did. Perhaps it was that sensibility that colored the movie for me, since throughout the film, I wanted to tell her to just get over herself. Paltrow was bland as Sylvia; I never felt the passion of her love for Hughes (who was played with intensity by Daniel Craig), but worse, I never felt the passion of her writing. The scene were Sylvia breaks down before her neighbor, a stranger, was almost laughable it was so unbelievable. (It didn't help that the movie had the most melodramatic score I've ever heard. Apparently, they weren't going for subtlety.)
In the end, I didn't believe in Sylvia's love, her poetry, nor her madness. I wasn't even depressed by the waste of such talent when she killed herself; it was only the sight of a totally gray England that was enough to make me weep.
posted @ 9:07 AM |
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